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A type of solitude that cannot spell death. A pure silence that does not sing madness, not enthralled by the thread’s curse. An emptiness that does not beg to be plucked by her pin.
That is how Lace has learned to undergo Hornet’s absences. Gently settling between her threads, easing her mind into the notion of a silence that does not need to be filled.
After Hornet and Lace's joint ascent from the Abyss, it took Pharloom some time merely to return to its former state. The same metallic, silken notes floated beneath its caverns, entangled with remnants of the horror that had choked and plagued these lands not long ago. Survivors and newcomers still wore the same modest attire, wandering through the reviving settlements in search of a place to take root. Feeble, thin rays of light still insisted on finding their way into the caverns from some unknown source. Lace wondered who, or what, was gracing her eyes and her shell with such gentle radiance. Were there any other divine beings out there? Merciful, calmer, blessing the world with light instead of madness and ire? Lace placed both paws upon her silken core, basking in the privilege of such childlike curiosity. She had forgotten how it felt to hold love, awe, wonder for one’s own birthplace. A temperate, no, warm type of joy. Not the choleric, drunken madness of battle. It did not invite death; it simply made her feel alive.
Freshly sprouted clovers gently brushed her pale claws. Lace had abandoned the sharp-clawed metal gauntlets she once wore, mechanical and deadly, forged in mimicry of her Mother's own. Adjusting her longpin's grip without them had proven a challenge, just as learning to touch other bodies without the intermediary of any blade. The little trefoils were fuzzy and cold to the touch, teeming with new life. Quiet remnants of what was once the forgotten kingdom of Verdania. Life finding a way. Life could find a way, especially where death once reigned. Perhaps such clovers would bloom and and take root inside her silken loins; perhaps the same soft plants would form a beautiful deathbed around her sibling Phantom's resting grounds.
The opulent, blue-tinged emerald hues of the cave breathed in peace, in rhythm with her own pulses. The timid forest floor beneath her legs felt humid and sticky, yet it meant no harm. The verdant bed spread out as a tapestry of textures, leaves shifting in size and color, vines and fronds moving and stilling in a tranquil parallax. Lace had grown fond of visiting Verdania's ruins, a place where she could hold sotto voce conversation with the world. Where she could breathe in unison with something that had also seen and slept with death, just as she herself had. And no one could find her there. Not the spider, not their neighbors, not Sherma. Perhaps Lace still had a few hours before someone took notice of her absence.
The trouble was, someone always did. And Lace was not entirely certain this was any trouble at all.
Agile, steady foot-claws disturbed the forest floor behind her.
"Un-haak, Lace Wielding Pin," her problem greeted. "I find myself obliged to search for you. Two nights have passed since your departure. Do you forget our agreements?"
She did not need to look over her shoulder. A broken clank of metal rubbing against metal, fracturing the immaculate silence she had once indulged in. Another breathing sound alongside her own.
"Would you gift me some extra time, wasp…? A prize for my excellent behavior?" Lace needled, playing with the clovers that danced beneath her claws.
"Where I come from, correct behavior earns a soul trust, not prizes, Lace-Pin," Shakra's sonorous voice contended behind her.
Lace shifted slightly, leaning to her left side, still denying the wasp the grace of her gaze. Perhaps, if Lace stayed like this, she would give up and leave her alone.
"I wonder if I was intoxicated, out of my mind somehow, when I agreed that you could look out for me…" Lace mused, sing-song, running a lazy claw along her longpin's length.
"My arrival surprises you as if I had not given you my word. Words mean nothing to you, girl?" Shakra challenged, her voice dropping a register.
Lace finally decided to relent and face her.
The silken doll turned to sit across from Shakra, adjusting the ivory skirt covering her legs, fastening two buttons up her delicate cotton blouse. Defensively, one paw closed around her longpin, frigid steel beneath her threads. Shakra noted it at once, studying her blade and her form from above. Lace loathed how tall the wasp was, dreaded the need to look up in order to address her.
"Well, your words do hold meaning for me, but no more than my own will," Lace retorted. "All I have for the present moment are the spider's recommendations regarding you, wasp. And we all know well even she can err in her judgments."
Shakra's analytical look waltzed through every thread in her form, as the wasp granted herself a pause before weaving a proper answer. Her triform mask inclined in concentration, peering closer, then farther. Lace could only pray it was not pity (not pity, anything in this world but pity, or Lace would end her then and there). Let it not be the cruel, horrid frustration Mother spilled upon finding her lost, unraveling in some corner of Pharloom after an unsuccessful encounter. Let it not be any kind of commiseration. Lace had no idea what Shakra’s study hoped to find, but she knew well what she dreaded to receive.
“Not every soul in this world is as frivolous, girl. But your concerns are valid. Words are, indeed, often spilled without care,” Shakra agreed, leaning back on her long, lithe arms, “but from me, you will only hear what comes from my soul, Lace Wielding Pin.”
Lace also loathed the way the wasp’s shell gleamed. How the golden tones covering her chest screamed against the greenery. The way her body, always exposed with no garments, stood out from all the other simple, stout bugs wandering through Pharloom. Supple, proud, full of new details Lace’s eyes insisted on registering, on committing to memory. At home, Lace would steal one or two of Hornet’s golden map markers, tracing them with her claws, trying to simulate what it would be like to touch that armor-like torso. It was not the real thing, of course. Few things in Lace’s existence had ever been more than imitations.
“Your soul? How cheesy, little wasp… do you spill the contents of your soul to any foolish bug that crosses your path?” Lace teased, still tracing the length of her longpin.
“I thought you were no bug,” Shakra debated, abandoning her laid-back posture.
Lace frowned, momentarily strangling the neck of her weapon. She might have even bared her fangs, just slightly.
“A smart little wasp you are. Do you want a prize for such discovery?”
“I am merely showing you that I do not employ words with frivolity. You have claimed it yourself not to be a bug, and you are also no ordinary being.” Shakra’s antennae trembled. “The liberation of these lands only happened because of your strength, Lace-Pin.”
A sad, sad and eerie laughter, tinged with sorrow. Barely resembling any true laughter, as if straining to sound happy and genuine. That was what left Lace's tongue as she gazed upward, lifting her shoulders, trying to make herself appear taller.
"Strength! Hilarious. I did it out of desperation… Had the spider perished, I would have suffered the very same fate for my impudence against Mother," Lace elaborated, her throat tightening as her voice rose in pitch, gesticulating with trembling paws. "Divine spider bludgeoned to death, fake bug unraveled by those golden claws. Forever entangled in an eternal union. I could either accept this, or mutilate the very goddess that spun me."
Words that impishly left Lace's mouth, only to land upon Shakra's senses like frigid tongues, causing the impenetrable warrior to shudder and look down. A grave growl resounded from the wasp's chest. A reaction. Lace kept her proud grin.
"For a soul that cares so little about words, you can certainly wield them with intention," Shakra turned her gaze back to her, two sharp brown eyes stinging her soul. "Alas, it is one thing to die honorably in battle; another to perish under the ire of a tyrant without a fight. Your choice for life is commendable, Lace, even if you fail to recognize it."
Just like the foolish little clovers and the relentless light from above, Shakra's words made Lace want to smile. They sent a gentle thrumming through her silken core, an unknown melody, yet certain and pleasant, warm and harmonious. It felt like the chaotic peace of conducting a thousand voices in chorus, under Mother's proud vigil. Like sleeping in her ivory embrace, soft and alive, or when Phantom would caress her scalp, humming old melodies, Lace's head upon their lap. The very same feeling as seeing Hornet's eyes without stains of aggression and doubt for the first time. Sensations Lace once believed she would be forever deprived of, and yet, they insisted on resurfacing and stealing into her soul. On these occasions, Lace would entangle herself within the loins of the lands that spun her to life, only to reject her and accept her all over again.
All until a stubborn, golden wasp hunted her down once more.
Lace rose to her feet, longpin in paw, but not wielded in offense. Shakra had not moved an inch, irritatingly still, as if meditating, those long paws resting upon her lap. Lace needed to see her up close. Lace wanted to move her, push and pull her, be it by her words or by her strength. Whatever would make that body abandon that risible, vexing stasis.
"Now that you have found me, little wasp… what shall I do? Should I offer you my wrists for your handcuffs? Will you take me to Hallownest's monarch for fair punishment?" Lace giggled, tapping the hem of her skirt.
Another reaction. Shakra let out a grave, almost lamenting chuckle, eyeing her up and down.
"I have already attested that you are safe, wicked little pin. If you can promise me your return to Bellhart, I will return to my duties."
By all measures, Shakra was a warrior. And no warrior allows another to invade their personal space without warning. So that was precisely what Lace chose to do, closing the distance between them in two swift steps. Shakra looked almost adorable as she tensed, antennae lifting when Lace began to pace around her, gripping her longpin.
"I promise I will return… sometime. But you cannot simply leave now. You have only just arrived!" Lace shrilled, threatening to brandish her weapon. "Keep me company."
The rustling of vines and foliage filled the quiet corner where Lace and Shakra lay hidden from the universe. A rogue ray of light drifted slowly, altering the composition of shadows and highlights, novel greens and yellows dotting the forest and stone floor.
"So the Child Wielding Pin desires my company. Garrok… very well." Shakra rose in one swift motion, towering over Lace. Gods, she was nearly twice her size. "My words hold no value for you, so what would? My weapon? My body?"
Disrespectfully tall. That damn woman was disrespectfully tall. Lace tightened her grip around the throat of her longpin, warm steel beneath her bare paws. Golden champion hips too close to her mask, that waist, those sturdy jet-black legs. Something was stirring deep within Lace's senses. Being a silk construct, she was not proficient at sensing pheromones, yet Lace felt something seeping from that cocky wasp, curling around her own core, warming her insides, swelling too large for her chest.
"Your… your body? What would I, the daughter of a goddess, desire from the body of a paltry, mortal little wasp?" Lace fussed, struggling to continue her waltz around Shakra's form.
"A friendly spar, perhaps, Child Wielding Pin?"
"No. I thank you most sincerely, but I must decline. I could give you endless trouble, and I would, but I do not wish to." Lace declared this while gazing upward, seeking Shakra's eyes. "And cease calling me child. I am centuries your elder."
Those damned brown eyes narrowed. Triumph? A smirk? The insolent little wasp hummed low and gravelly, a mocking little song, as she stared down at her.
"With these words and this stature, Lace Wielding Pin… silken child," Shakra taunted. "You wield your weapon against me, yet you deny me any true contest. Are these the guardians of these lands? Only words? No substance?"
"Stop calling me these base, mortal things…"
"Or what, Lace-Pin?"
All it took was one step from those long legs for the distance between them to vanish. But then came another, and another, and Lace’s shorter limbs backpedaled awkwardly, a battle already lost. A defeated moan escaped through her teeth as wasp and false bug retreated in stumbles across the forested stone floor.
“Stop at once, wasp!” Lace grunted. “If you wish to fight me, do so with honesty! Coward!”
“I profoundly desire to taste the grace of your weapon, little fencer, but that is not the reason I am here,” Shakra sneered, playful. “Do you want me to leave?”
“Nngh… no!” Lace yelped, a cold, jagged stone wall barreling against her back.
That was not enough to make Shakra stop. After all, Lace had just asked her to stay. One more step as those amber, sturdy hips covered her view. One more step and that scent of ink and burnt wood invaded her fabricated sensilla.
Lace stifled, heaved, as if someone had stolen all the air and all the light from Verdania’s decomposing corpse. And yet, all Lace could truly feel and sense was life.
“There you are. You wish for me to stay; stay I shall,” the wasp declared, claws resting on her own hips, gazing down.
Touching Shakra’s shell was, indeed, akin to touching Hornet's map pins.
Lace could see the ridges and the spaces between the plates of her chitin. Strokes of black and gold, heat, too much heat, too much of everything. The silken doll braced herself with her paws, her very soul evaporating as that golden shell met her trembling palms. Her longpin lay abandoned at her feet; her paws stretched across those curvaceous, supple hips. The surface was surprisingly malleable, warm and textured, alive. Hardened enough to shield Shakra's vital organs, yet bending faintly beneath her silken touch.
“Is it… necessary? To be this close?”
“You are the one holding me in place, Lace Wielding Pin.”
“You are strong enough to leave, fool.”
“I was requested to stay.”
It burned, simmered beneath her palms, threatening to melt her silken threads. It moved with Shakra’s heavy exhales, still calm and controlled. One of Lace’s claws brushed against a soft ridge, chitinous, pitch-black, tepid.
“I… I did not request— ah!”
Shakra knelt in one fluid motion, sending Lace's palms gliding helplessly to her chest. There was no strength behind it, no physical force. Only her gaze and the warmth of that shell as the wasp leaned closer, granting Lace a glimpse of every detail of her horned mask. Darkened nicks and old bruises, dents and scratches, each telling stories of fools who had dared to venture too near. The discreet glimmer of her sharp brown eyes, seeing deep and far into everything Lace had ever dared to be. The resonant, rumbling sound of Shakra's breathing as two lithe, dark arms caged the silken doll from both sides. Lace's fabricated body scrambled to catalog each new discovery like a dedicated scholar, millions of fresh entries flooding her senses per second.
Her voice melted into something pathetic when Shakra dared to touch her back, long, gentle claws cradling both of her shoulders. Lace could swear Shakra burned with an inferno beneath that shell, a contagious fire, self-feeding and eternal.
"Why… why, wasp… why me… why did you not—"
"I can stop and leave at any time, Lace. All you have to do is ask."
"I do not… I never… I fail to see what you want from me. I do not know what I want from you. I simply…" Lace keened, voice feather-soft, words breaking away from one another and tumbling across her tongue.
"You need not know. All is well," Shakra cooed, her tone grave and sweet, the honeyed texture of each syllable melting against Lace's cheeks.
Lace could see Shakra's fangs, her tongue, the many intricate elements of her mouthparts shifting beneath the mask. She knew what fear tasted like, and it was not fear burning between them now. Yet her legs trembled, faltering as her paws clasped against that broad, muscled chest, dull claws sinking into amber plates.
"Would you permit me to draw closer, Lace-Pin?" Shakra hummed, and each syllable seemed to ebb, sliding down from that metallic voice to weld itself somewhere beneath Lace's threads.
Stunned into stillness, Lace could only nod. Damn it all. The wasp was already too near. Nearer than any bug had ever been without dying or attempting to kill her. Nearer than the spider. Shakra carried the scent of the first step beyond the Citadel's gates. She had the voice of a gentle deity.
Hissing, grunting, soft moans slipped free as two antennae ghosted over her cheeks… what was this, even? Prickly, faintly vibrating, covered in fine setae. Lace knew the anatomy of a flesh-and-blood bug, of course, but she had never touched a living one like this, with so much… care. The soft, fuzzy probes stroked her cheeks while Shakra closed one eye and cupped Lace's mask with one paw.
"Can you please… tell me what in this world you are doing with… those things?" Lace whined through her teeth.
"I am scenting you, little fencer," Shakra hummed, unhurried. "Scenting your divine taste, your flowery fragrance. I sense that you are nervous… forgive me."
Trembling, and trembling, and trembling. Not in fear. Life, perhaps? Was this what coursed through any flesh-bug's hemolymph?
"I do not… I do not know… what I want," Lace admitted, gaze falling.
"I suspect you wish to plunge these little claws into my flesh, my Pin. You hold me as though I am about to fall. But I do not mind. I am quite resistant," Shakra encouraged, her tone soft, lush. "I am going to touch you in a certain way, and you may tell me how it makes you feel."
"How would you know—"
Lace had forgotten the tongue she had spoken her entire life. Something long, slick brushed against her wrists, her palms. When had the wasp…? An obscene sound melted from her throat, crying, a plea. Those mouthparts were meant to kill, to slice, to splinter… and yet they ghosted gently over her threads. Her silk fluttered and loosened, thrumming, singing a peaceful melody. The same melody that came to her in sleep, or when she merely watched Hornet's handiwork spread across her table, now sounding as tepid lips and tongue played along her wrist, dampening her fabric. But that peace was a stranger to whatever raged inside her, Lace's silken core screaming as though danger loomed near, muffled by a thick fog named desire.
"This is… a kiss, Lace Wielding Pin. Something reserved for two souls who hold trust in one another," Shakra whispered. "I want you to tell me how that makes you feel, my dear."
Her legs yearned to close as fiercely as they ached to spread, to falter against the forest floor. Frenziedly craving motion and stillness all at once, like a performer balanced upon a tightrope, shameful whimpers and moans dripping, uncontrolled, from her tongue. Lace was powerless to halt them. Powerless to slip free of Shakra's embrace as the wasp waited for an answer, eyes locked upon hers. And yet, at the very same time, there was no shame.
For the first time in a thousand centuries, no one was watching.
"I… I enjoy this," Lace confessed, "and I want you to… kiss… kiss me again."
"Very well. Tell me if that changes, Lace-Pin."
"Call me… call me that again," Lace pleaded, her eyes fluttering shut.
By all the silk in the world, let Shakra continue. May those mouthparts and palps go on tasting and savoring her skin, her arms… Lace could spend hours being scented like this. Lace wanted this. Lace could refuse it, and she wanted this. If Mother were to wake now, the fury of her claws would be felt, for obedient daughters felt no want. Constructs, sworn weapons, dolls, lifeless husks… could such things feel desire? Lace absolutely did. Lace wanted that mortal wasp. Lace had lured Shakra in like a hound, coaxed her to laugh, coaxed her to move, wrangled sighs and whispers from her in an unprecedented awakening. It howled and writhed inside her flesh like a beast, in the same delirious blasphemy that had condemned Phantom, and would have sealed Lace's fate as well, had Grand Mother Silk not been mutilated and drowned in the Abyss. Lace, however, was alive and whole.
"Dear," Shakra breathed, sang against her shoulders, her throat, eyes closed. "Hnng… so sharp, so fierce. You need not know all of your desires at once, my craving Pin. Only know that you may say the word and I will stop at any time."
Each word arranged itself slowly within Lace's mind. She had control. She could want, and she scarcely needed to ask, because someone else already knew, and was willing to give.
Shakra settled back upon her knees, dropping even closer to her mask, and her inebriating scent of amber and ink drowned Lace's senses. She could very well faint, go limp against those limbs. A feather-light claw, softer than a clover, touched Lace's lower lip, inviting them to part. Air rushed in, petrichor and wood across her fangs and tongue. Another paw held her by the waist, long enough to span her back, her ribs, her wide hips. Places where no one had ever touched Lace without a blade; places where no one had ever asked to touch her at all.
Lace could see it now, up close. Close enough to glimpse droplets of saliva beading upon darkened fangs and palps. Lace could feel want. Want, want, want. Lace was free to scream desire.
And because Lace was undeniably free, she let Shakra's tongue touch hers.
The same sap that coursed through Pharloom's flora now raced through every thread that formed her silken shell, in a precise measure just shy of the lethal dose. The way the air vibrated and sang when a thousand voices bloomed into the chorus, the milliseconds between the rise of her baton and the confluence of voices in harmony. Life and agony warred for what felt like hours within her chest. Lace could feel the exact shape of her silken core and every fleeting instant between its pulses. Everything moved in hunger and awe, urging, informing her that Lace needed more.
Another careful claw conducted her chin, precisely, as Shakra tilted her head just slightly, locking their mouths together in an even more perfect fit. Intense, better, simply better. Lace tentatively moved her own tongue, and what followed could not be put into words even if she spent the rest of her days in the Vault, rummaging through every tome. Warm and slick, addictive and feral. Shakra pressed those sharp mouthparts against her lips, and Lace could feel every new contact, every slide, like detonations. The blasts calmed her, soothed her heart even as they ignited it, each bursting into the next. Boom, boom, tap, clank, a bombardment that could make the Abyss recoil.
A sigh coursed through Lace, a prelude to a moan. A vulnerable, strange sound.
"Close your eyes, my Pin," Shakra requested, low and deliberate. "Regale yourself. Feast upon your prey. For I am here… you lured me in. Do you think I ignored the silken strands you left upon your path?"
"Excellent… excellent, little wasp. My taste is indeed divine. Of course you… of course a mortal bug like you would be lost in it. Of course you would come to me," Lace fought for her pride, clutching at the steadiness of her voice. "Now show me… show me how you please a lover."
"It has been ages since I last held a partner in my arms, Lace-Pin. But I am excellent at remembering," Shakra chuckled, caressing Lace's cheeks, toying with the hem of her blouse.
Two ivory paws pulled Shakra close, ravenous, as Lace shoved her tongue between those deadly fangs. Shakra tasted acidic, warm, honeyed, mineral. Strong embers fed her neck and mouth; the world outside would be unbearably cold. Shakra held her by the waist as though Lace were made of porcelain, a featherlight pressure. Another detonation blasted inside her belly as that tongue writhed and coiled within her mouth.
Gently, Shakra lifted her by the thighs. Lace's body acted before her mind could follow, her arms winding around Shakra's slender neck, erasing all distance between their bodies, surrendering her weight to another's hold. It felt… it felt strange. But Lace knew, deep in her threads, that she would not fall.
"Relax, my Pin… sit here, upon my legs," Shakra cooed, guiding Lace's thighs around her own waist.
Warm, too warm, too much, choking, the world was ending, and the only thing separating their shells was the thin fabric of Lace's blouse and skirt. Swift wasp claws fiddled with the pins that held her hair in place.
To hell with the pins, and cursed be the way Mother wanted her hair arranged.
Lace pulled back from their messy kiss, earning a disappointed grunt from the wasp. That thunderous voice sounded lovely even reduced to whispers and groans. Pulling pin by pin, slowly, Lace undid her intricate updo, letting her pristine, silvery strands spill and cascade from her claws to her shoulders, her collar, her back. Shakra's eyes followed in devotion, swaying with each individual thread, confused, drunken, wanting.
"Mera-Varshka, by every soul guarding the Plains, Lace…" Shakra growled, testing the feel of her strands between her claws. "You could only have been spun by divine hands…"
A purr rolled from Shakra's chest, rumbling low. Curiosity? Excitement? Adorable. It echoed through Lace's own threads, making their bodies sway to the same song, contraltos bearing the structure of the chorus.
"Do not stare for too long, wasp… say your prayers," Lace demanded.
Sharp sounds, the slick murmur of Shakra's palps, tongue, and breathing. The almost imperceptible thrum of Lace's silken threads. Irrelevant whispers measured against the reviving forest around them, yet Lace could feel every one. Hot against her neck, Shakra's tongue wetting and probing her weaving.
Ah, hah… wasp, little wasp— hnng… taste me, taste me all you want…
Lace sang as the fabric of her shell grazed and burned beneath those fangs—dangerously burning, burning the way only a living thing could. Pleading, growling, whining (Shakra, Shakra… ah, you… more…) the way only a living soul could. Lace buried her face in the crook of Shakra's neck, and she would stay there for hours. Perhaps she did. Lace's grasp on the passage of time wore thin as the wasp's hungry kisses melted into gentle pecks, peppered across her collarbones, flirting with her breast, drawing a long, needy moan from her. Lace could hold these sounds, these vulnerable and sinful sounds, but… why? Why craft silence when no one could hear her? Sing she did as Shakra's exploratory claws worked across her belly, her rump, her hips, hunting and uncovering new sources of life.
Because Lace was wanted, and because she wanted Shakra back.
"Your silk… hums a distinct melody, Lace Wielding Pin. I can hear it," Shakra teased, her voice husky. "You are magnificent…"
"Stop… stop with your flattery, wasp… You are still being tested for my trust."
"Your tests… do they require all this physical work, girl?"
"Shut up— hnng, little wasp… I—"
Limbs heavy, as though Lace's threads were drenched in warm honey, their weight compounding by the second while Shakra continued to touch and explore her. Paws traveling from the small of her back to the nape of her neck, her clothes now in disarray, exposing her midriff… slower, slower, slower. Shakra gently pulled back, creating a sliver of space between them to admire Lace, to adore her.
"Keep… keep going, wasp—"
Lace did not know what had left her mouth. It simply… blurred into noise. That familiar exhaustion. It was not the first time she had felt it; since her Mother's dethroning, Lace's body had grown strangely… heavy, pleading for rest whenever she grew too relaxed. It had happened once before, just after their ascent from the Abyss. Lace could not stop it, could not control it.
"Can I… can I just stay here? I think I shall stay here… for a while…" Lace moaned, low and breathy.
"You seem rather tired, my dear. I shall… I shall carry you home, then," Shakra mused, her voice still thick with desire.
"I am fi… fiiiine…" Lace tried, but she could not be certain the words had ever formed.
Shakra merely chuckled, adjusting her hold to cradle her better. So warm. So sure of herself. So secure.
Lace's lips grew heavy, her limbs dissolving, a steady paw cradling the back of her head, keeping it from lolling in utter surrender. Suddenly, all her body asked for was rest. To melt into Shakra's embrace and close her eyes, savoring the taste of freedom, for Shakra's body was glazed with it. Lace let her weight sink back, leaning fully into the wasp's sturdy arms. No answer from her own body as her vision blurred into Shakra's warmth, tinges of gold and emerald and black swimming through the shallows of her mind.
Textured, mapped with small, old bruises… the shell of Shakra's chest-plates, warm against her cheeks. Humming, low laughter…? Words, husky sounds… Lace's eyelids sliding shut as steady claws bore her weight.
Foot-claws disturbing what was once Verdania, brushing aside the last green shoots. The light that bled into the cavern gave way to the dreary, sunless air of… Greymoor? Lace dreamed of the stage. Voices dying away as her baton lowered. Curtains drawing closed. Mother's loving gaze… loving? Could it still be named love?
With the conclusion of the song, came slumber.
With her body now existing beyond Grand Mother Silk's influence, Lace had begun a parade of discoveries. This sudden, overpowering relaxation was one among them. Without warning, the accumulated exhaustion of centuries of servitude would crash upon her, if Lace felt safe enough to bear it.
As she opened her eyes, the world was red and brass, not green. Shakra's arms had been replaced by a thick, ruby-colored blanket; the dim light of Verdania's grave had become a sky full of lanterns. A scent of cotton and metal. Walls around her, a soft mattress beneath her back, still holding her own scent.
Oh. A kiss. Lace had just learned what a kiss was. Something reserved for two souls who trust one another.
Untangling herself from sleep, Lace instinctively reached for her longpin, only to find it leaning neatly against the wall beside her. A note had been fastened to it.
When shall my next test take place, Lace Wielding Pin? I look forward to your scoring. You know well where my camp lies. But come with haste: I am always changing places.
The song of your threads is memorable. When a song enthralls me, I try to learn it, and I want to hear it again. I thought you should know.
With fascination,
Shakra, Wielding Rings